


A Ghost Of A Chance

by Thorntonsheart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Costumes, First Kiss, Flirting, Halloween, M/M, Sexual Tension, ghost story, historical murder, save the children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 06:20:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5080972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorntonsheart/pseuds/Thorntonsheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John attend a costumed auction in support of Save The Children.  John keeps seeing a mysterious figure that no-one else can see, someone who seems very familiar to him...  </p><p>Flirting is had, deductions are made and a mystery is unearthed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Ghost Of A Chance

**Author's Note:**

> This started out life in response to a conversation with my beta, Lockedinjohnlock, when she was hunting down some Halloween stories. I cheekily volunteered to write one! Costume ideas were discussed and much fun was had! What follows is what happens when I have too much time on my hands and Hamlet in my head! 
> 
> As always, endless gratitude goes to the ever dedicated and awesomely amazing Lockedinjohnlock. Never ending patience teamed with a fabulous sense of humour, quick eye and brilliant beta skills - what more could I ask for?! Her word and idea suggestions have undoubtedly made this story what it is.
> 
> Also big, squishy hugs to Iwassoalone for never losing faith in me and having a wonderful conversation about what Sherlock would look like in Lycra and sending me ideas for John's costume, a look that ultimately ended up on Greg.

John adds the final article to his costume and steps back to look at himself in the mirror. Not too bad. If he were going to be forced to wear a costume this year he was damn sure it was going to be something practical. Something that he could move easily in, not pass out whilst wearing and something he felt good in. He knows that Sherlock expects him to be obvious and either don an army uniform or a white coat and stethoscope. Well, he's sort of kept with a medical theme.....

Tweaking his neckwear once more John grins at his reflection, remembering last week's conversation with Sherlock.

_"John, we're going to a Halloween party next week, you'll need something suitable to wear." Sherlock's tone had been imperious, brooking no argument; so of course, John had argued._

_"What? A costume party? Nope, you're on your own for that one!" He paused. "Or is it for a case?" John winced at the eagerness in his voice, he loved being able to work cases with Sherlock again. Over a year had passed since he had moved back into Baker Street and things were mostly back to normal._

_Sherlock delayed before answering. There had been a time when Sherlock would have lied or avoided answering, but now he was more inclined to tell John at least some of the truth._

_"No. Not a case. I put our name down to attend a charity dinner. There's also an auction, I donated the ear hat."_

_"Oh." John didn't feel like he could very well refuse now. "What's the charity for and should I donate something?" He wriggled in his seat, unsure what he could have that people would possibly want._

_"It's for Save The Children, and...." Sherlock took a deep breath before rushing on. "I donated one of your notebooks, I checked it for sensitive materials and it's already doing really well in the bidding."_

_"I'll come, and I think the notebook was a brilliant choice." John rubbed at the nape of his neck and sent Sherlock a worried look. " You definitely double checked that the notebook had nothing incriminating in it?"_

_"Of course, John. I'm not an idiot." Sherlock huffed, placing his hands firmly on his hips. Sensing an argument brewing, John rapidly changed the subject._

_"What are you going to go as Sherlock? Any ideas?" John leaned heavily on his knees, his mind rapidly conjuring up more and more ridiculous images of Sherlock in costume._

_"I already have it. I'm going as Catman." Sherlock looked so smug with his choice that John didn't even try to smother his giggles._

_"Catman? What the hell is Catman? Some sort of mutant experiment, like a werewolf type of thing?" He clutched at his stomach, the idea of Sherlock dressed head to foot in matted fur just worsened his giggles; the notion of ears and a long fluffy tail soon had tears streaming down his face._

_"Well, I'm glad you find it all so amusing John. I actually meant like in those awful bat films you make me watch." Sherlock's full-lipped pout did nothing to ease John's laughter and it was a while before he was able to speak clearly._

_"Bat films? What bat films? Oh, you mean Batman!" He drew his eyebrows together in an effort to think, he couldn't remember a Catman, but the image of a very beautiful woman in a form fitting costume came to mind. "That was Catwoman, Sherlock. Most definitely a female." The costume had left very little doubt of that._

_"Yes, Doctor." The sarcasm was rich in Sherlock's voice. "Thank you for your keen observation. I was well aware of that fact. She was female. I am male, hence Catman."_

_"But......" John licked his lips, nervous about offending Sherlock but wanting to save his feelings in the long run. "I don't think Catman would work. I think it will just end up looking silly, rather than sexy. I'm sure you don't want to ruin your reputation for being intelligent by wearing a costume that makes you look far from it."_

_"I'm seen with you almost daily and yet people still think I'm intelligent." Sherlock replied with a sly smirk and quick flash of sparkling eyes in John's direction._

_"Oi! That's uncalled for!" John replied before rapidly falling back into the giggles. God, he had missed their quick banter and Sherlock's quirky sense of humour, it was truly good to be home._

Still smiling at the thought of what Sherlock's ridiculous costume would actually look like, John walks down the stairs and enters their living room. He is too busy smoothing the material over his thighs to notice Sherlock's stealthy approach from the kitchen, jumping when his name was called. Looking up he is disappointed to see that Sherlock already had his coat on, fully done up and his scarf about his throat. His disappointment is quickly forgotten though at the sight of Sherlock's face. His eyes are now emphasised by bold black eyeliner tracing along the edge of the top lid, ending in a sweeping flick just beyond the end of each eye, a thinner line drawn just beneath them. The lids are covered with varying shades of shimmering grey eyeshadow, elongating the eyes further, emphasising their catlike tilt and intensifying the green of Sherlock's irises. Clever shading on his face make his cheekbones seem even more pronounced. His lips are painted a delicate shade of rose and glisten slightly in the lamp lit room. The look should have been utterly feminine, but on Sherlock it emphasised his masculinity, the firm lines of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. John suddenly remembers a documentary he had seen about the big cats of Africa, in particular lions, how the darkness of the mane indicated the superiority of the lion, the darker the hair, the more dominant the male. His eyes flick up to Sherlock's hair. It has been artfully tousled, the styling product loosening the curls into delicate waves framing his face, drawing John's attention back, once again, to Sherlock's piercing eyes. John is lost for words at the power of the man standing before him. He has always been attracted to him, both physically and mentally, but now that attraction is like a punch to the solar plexus, stealing his breath away.

Whilst John stares at Sherlock, Sherlock, in turn, studies John, speaking his observations aloud.

"Fitted dark blue coat, matching double-breasted waistcoat, white linen shirt worn beneath, white cravat tied loosely at the throat. Form fitting cream breeches, presumably with a fall front. White stockings and black buckle shoes. The clothing of a successful London businessman in the 1780's. Teamed with the blood stained apron and the cut-throat razor on display in your pocket, you are obviously Sweeney Todd." Sherlock's bright green eyes flicked over John's form once again, briefly lingering on John's thighs. "A fitting choice John. The barbers of that time were also highly skilled surgeons. Like you, they were able to turn their hand to many things."

John flushes at the unexpected compliment and at the heat in Sherlock's eyes as he again studies John's costume, eyes travelling more leisurely over John's form.

"That was brilliant." The words escape without any thought and John's heart beats faster at the genuine smile Sherlock sends his way. "Er..... I like your cat ...... Thing ..... Look... Too." John silently groans at his utter lack of finesse, anyone would think he had never received or given a compliment before. Clearing his throat, he tries again. "The bit of your look I can see is amazing." He reaches out and gently touches the front of Sherlock's coat. "Can I see the rest?" John's eyes widen when Sherlock rests his hand over his, gently clasping it before slowly removing it.

"No. Not yet. You can see when we get to the event. It'll be a surprise." Sherlock almost purrs the words out and John has to swallow against the flood of saliva in his mouth. He gives a quick nod to indicate he has heard and understood before turning to grab his coat and making a hasty exit down the stairs, slipping quickly into the back of the sleek black car idling at the curb side.

Their long journey passes pleasantly enough, with Sherlock eager to educate John on all things Sweeney Todd.

"Lots of people think that Sweeney Todd is just an urban legend, but these things have to start somewhere John!" Bright eyes flash in John's direction, Sherlock might not know much about some things (the solar system and Lestrade's first name leapt immediately to John's mind) but he does know a _lot_ about anything murder related, historical or not.

"I can see you've done some research, as you've gone for a clothing style befitting the time period." Sherlock's eerily accentuated gaze once again studies John's form, frowning at the addition of the modern day coat before lingering again on John's thighs. "It's a ......" One black gloved hand waves elegantly in the air as Sherlock searches for the appropriate words. "Good look on you."

"All the blood? Hmmmm, not really my thing, Sherlock." John laughs awkwardly, fighting down the urge to cover his thighs; two compliments in the space of an hour from Sherlock and John was suddenly turning shy! This will not do!

"Not the blood, no." Sherlock holds John's gaze for a long moment before turning to stare out of the window. "The fit of the clothes, tailored to compliment your shape and accentuate your form...... That's the good look."

"Oh." John is almost struck dumb at the unexpected answer, and despite not being able to see his face, he knows that Sherlock was being genuine.

A long moment of silence passes before Sherlock speaks again, returning to the topic of Sweeney Todd. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock knows rather a lot about him, citing supposed birth place and date, criminal history prior to the throat slashings (of course he'd know that), probable number of victims once he became the Demon Barber of Fleet Street (a horrifying 160) and, astonishingly, singing a quick snippet from the title song of Sondheim's stage show.

By the time the car pulls up in front of an opulent manor house, John's brain is brimming over with facts and figures and a sudden urge to accompany Sherlock to see a production of Sweeney Todd. He exits the car first, holding the door open whilst taking in their surroundings. Despite being directly outside where the event is taking place it is unnaturally quiet. No music escapes from the house and no other cars crunch over the gravel. The long drive sweeping away from them is eerily lit by the orange glow of old fashioned lamplights. Thin threads of material hang from the lampposts and various trees, implying the presence of giant spiders, the webbing moving in a barely perceptible breeze. Scattered across the grounds John can make out ethereal figures, apparently frozen during a Halloween dance, long dresses swirled out mid turn, elegant arms forever reaching, never touching. The whole atmosphere prickles at John's latent instincts and he whirls around to face Sherlock when he senses him approach. John's shoulders are squared, his jaw clenched and his body is flooded with adrenalin, ready to fight or take flight, prepared to drag Sherlock with him. When he focuses on Sherlock's face the concern he sees there begins to calm him, slow his racing heart and even out his breathing.

Sherlock tilts his head, the move appearing even more cat-like given his current make-up. He moves slowly into John's personal space and rests a warm, gloved hand at the small of his back, applying gentle pressure but not enough to direct John to move. With his right hand he gestures to the figures.

"Chicken wire sculptures, painted with glow-in-the dark paint. Someone is very talented to have been able to work it into such life-like figures. The lamp bulbs have been changed from bright white to orange to create a dim, eerie light and the low lying fog native to this area and time of year is enhancing the effect. The gravestones are mostly fake." John squints to where Sherlock is pointing, just able to make out a cluster of leaning and broken grave markers through the mist.

"Mostly fake?" Although his voice is relatively calm, he knows that Sherlock will have been able to hear the slight edge that still taints his words. His breathing and heart rate are not calming as quickly as he would have liked.

"Yes. The central one is authentic."

John looks again just as a break in the mist conveniently appears, the central stone is more elaborately decorated than the rest and a carved figure appears to be leaning against it, quite obviously heartbroken at their loss. The sight of the figure causes a prickle to creep along his spine and he shivers, trying to clear the continued feeling of unease away. He's a doctor, been a soldier, for God's sake, the sight of a grave really shouldn't be making him feel so disquieted.

"The grave is for the first owner of this house, back in the 1700s. He was found in his study with his throat slit so forcefully he was almost decapitated. There were no signs of a forced entry, the doors and windows to his room were all locked from the inside and his evening cup of tea was still warm on the desk beside him. No shouts or sounds of disturbance were heard. A real locked room murder."

"Maybe my choice of costume wasn't such a tactful choice." John pulls briefly at his cravat, before shuffling his feet, the fidgeting a clear indication of the tension he still feels knotted in his gut.

"Because you are portraying a murderer who kills his victims by slashing their throats? Really John, it was hundreds of years ago." Sherlock looks up at John from beneath lowered eyelashes, a smile apparent in his voice. "Besides, he apparently had a full beard!"

Both men laugh, before John shivers against the cold. Sherlock gently nudges him towards the house but John turns into him slightly, once again looking at the gravestones.

John's voice hitches slightly. "Who does the statue represent?" He looks again at the figure, thin and delicate, swathed in a long flowing dress. He's sure that up close the carved features would be exquisite. Everything about the statue's form suggests grace and elegance, utterly lifelike in their rendering. Even as he suppresses a shiver that he knows has nothing to do with the cold, he can't help thinking that the face would be no less beautiful.

"What statue?" Sherlock looks into the distance, his keen eyes studying the gravestones.

"The one of the woman on the murdered man's tomb. She's obviously supposed to be relative of some sort judging by the way she is sprawled over his final resting place." He barely suppresses the exasperated sigh. For such an observant man Sherlock is being remarkably blind. The figure is on the tomb as clear as day, well - misty night, John corrects, and yet still Sherlock cannot see it. A brief surge of panic twists itself under John's ribcage, before he firmly quells it, left hand clenched into a tight fist.

Sherlock moves his hands to grip onto John's biceps firmly. He studies John's face, intelligent eyes flicking from feature to feature. "John." His voice is careful, designed not to startle. "There is no statue on the grave."

"What? Of course there is, don't be bloody ridiculous." He moves his arm again to point, his focus still firmly on Sherlock. "She's carved in marble, or something similar." He ducks round Sherlock's body to see the graves more clearly. The central grave is devoid of any figure. "What the bloody......" John trails off, the skin at the nape of his neck tingling, a sure sign he is being covertly watched. Sherlock is staring openly at him, worry momentarily clear even in his painted features. "I guess it was just someone playing silly buggers, trying to scare the guests."

"Yes." Sherlock answers slowly, before once again putting his hand against the small of John's back. "I'm sure that's precisely what it was." John clenches his jaw, gives a brief nod of his head and allows himself to be guided towards the house. It's dark and misty, the atmosphere between the two of them is charged and he's letting childish reactions cloud his mind. He takes a deep breath in and slowly out, trying to shake off the lingering doubt that this is all just in his overactive mind.

The large wooden door swings open almost soundlessly and the men are greeted by a wave of noise as sounds of the party within flood over them. A suited member of staff takes John's coat and he moves around the entrance hallway, his attention on the opulent surroundings. The portrait of a beautiful, young woman catches his eye, something about her tugs at John, eliciting a sense of déjà vu.

"Sherlock? Do you kn......." The words die in his throat as he turns to face Sherlock. Sherlock is fussing with his hair, trying to position a small pair of feline ears. He should look ludicrous, like some sort of poor drag queen kitten, but the drying up of John's mouth and the stirring in his groin would indicate that sex god would be a more appropriate description. John's gaze travels slowly down the length of Sherlock's lithe form, taking in every detail. His body is swathed in form fitting matt Lycra, every curve and dip of muscle sharply defined. His arms, still raised to his hair, are long and sinuous, the biceps more strongly defined than even John had expected. Sherlock's shoulders are broad, the deltoids contracted as he adjusts the small ears with long Lycra clad fingers. The lowering of his arms drags John's eyes to Sherlock's chest. He can just see the suggestion of peaked nipples before he flicks his eyes to the floor, heat flooding his cheeks. John's eyes drift back up Sherlock's body, hungrily devouring the sight of defined calves and thighs, strong and masculine and seemingly never-ending. His breath escapes in a rush at the sight of black Lycra stretching over the full curve of Sherlock's crotch.

"Are you wearing any pants?" The words escape John before his brain to mouth filter has been engaged. Mortified he spins to face the portrait once more. A deep chuckle washes over him, and warm breath tickles his cheek. Sherlock is standing well within John's personal space and he's sure that Sherlock can hear the pounding of his heart.

"This time I am, John." Laughter colours Sherlock's voice. John tenses as he feels Sherlock move closer. "A thong, black and silky." His words are a husky whisper and John's eyelids flutter shut as Sherlock's lips brush against the curve of his ear. Before he has time to respond, Sherlock has stepped away. The sudden absence of heat adds a shiver to John's already trembling body.

"Ah. Miss Evangeline Watson, the step-daughter of the unfortunate Sir Bernard Jackson, the murdered man whose grave is in the grounds. It was she, I believe, who entered the room first and found his body."

"Watson?" John's heartbeat has now returned to almost its regular pattern as he gazes upon the delicate face of the girl in the portrait. Intelligent blue eyes stare out unseeingly and hair the colour of ripe corn curls loosely about her shoulders. Maybe he has a reproduction of the painting elsewhere? He cannot shake off the feeling of familiarity, the prickle of unease returning.

"It's a common enough name, John. I doubt she is some distant relative." Sherlock turns to go, but John remains, staring at the painting. A short huff sounds over his shoulder before Sherlock is once again standing beside him.

"What happened to her?" Even with the presence of Sherlock next to him, John can't help the wash of sadness that almost overwhelms him, making his voice hushed, almost reverent.

"She vanished. Two days after the murder. Supporting unofficial claims that she had murdered her step-father in a fit of rage after he refused her permission to marry." Sherlock pauses, his gaze now also on the portrait. "Utter nonsense of course. She's too slight of frame to have inflicted the sheer level of brutality required to almost decapitate a man, and by all accounts she doted on him. He had raised her as his own since she was an infant; his marriage to her mother was a brief, but happy one. His wife died only two years into their marriage and he raised Evangeline at home. He employed nannies and governesses but essentially raised her himself, an extremely uncommon move given his social status and the time period."

John looks over at Sherlock, admiring the man in profile a moment before speaking again. "And you know all this how? About Evangeline and Sir Bernard?"

Turning and tilting his head slightly to meet John's gaze, Sherlock smiles briefly. "It's a murder house, John. I recognised the name when Mycroft said where the event was being held and refreshed my knowledge."

"In your mind palace?" John gestures towards Sherlock's head, stopping just short of his cheek.

"No, John." Laughter briefly lights Sherlock's face as he directs a teasing eye roll at John. "On the Internet!" He briefly leans his cheek into John's hand before walking to the double doors leading to the ballroom.

John lowers his hand and blinks slowly; the feel of Sherlock's skin against his palm is burned indelibly into his sense receptors. Shaking his head and casting one more brief look at the portrait of Evangeline, John follows Sherlock into the bustling party.

The ballroom is brimming over with chatter and laughter, the clothes are surprisingly bright and colourful, some people have embraced the Halloween theme and are suitably gory; others have just used it as an opportunity to put on costumes. As he glances around, he spies a tall man dressed in an elaborate toga. A purple sash of office is draped over his shoulder and settles on his hip and on his head of thinning auburn hair he wears a crown of gold laurel leaves. His poise is regal and John isn't as surprised as perhaps he could be when the man turns in profile; Mycroft Holmes, looking strangely fitting in his costume of a Roman Emperor. John follows Sherlock closely as he weaves his way through the crowd. John's attention is drawn to where he expects to see a long tail, appropriate to Sherlock's costume, protruding. All he sees is a black nub resting above the divide of Sherlock's backside; a backside that is shown to full advantage as Sherlock strides his way towards Mycroft, strong, rounded cheeks flexing and relaxing on each step.

John reaches forward and grabs Sherlock's arm to gain his attention and slow him down a little. He forces his voice to be light, praying that he won't sound as flustered as he feels. It doesn't seem to matter from what angle he looks at Sherlock, the damn man is decked out in such a way that John gets an immediate eyeful of toned muscles.

"Erm, Sherlock?" He gestures to Sherlock's behind. "Where's your tail?"

"I've got a tail." He twists slightly and pats the little black nub, drawing John's eyes back to that delectably rounded backside. "I'm a Manx cat, they don't have tails. Occasionally little stubs like this, but not always. I thought the longer, more traditional tail, would just be a nuisance. This serves the purpose much better." With a deliberate wiggle of his hips he, once more, cuts his way through the crowd, waiting for John once he reaches Mycroft.

"Ah, brother mine, you made it." As always, Mycroft is able to be perfectly courteous but strangely insulting without really saying anything. John decided long ago that it was a very Holmesian trait. "John, you're looking very dashing tonight, a suitably macabre Sweeney Todd." His attention briefly darts over Sherlock's costume. "And how is your costume working out for you, Sherlock?" John is confused when both men look once again at him, Sherlock smiling a rare genuine smile and Mycroft looking even more smug than usual. His query as to why is cut off abruptly.

"Sherlock, John! I thought that was you two!" The warm tones of Greg Lestrade cut through the noise easily and soon the man himself is in full view. Dressed as a Roman legionnaire, his bare legs are on show under a short leather skirt, his calves and feet bound in intricate leather sandals, his chest covered in a red undershirt with a golden breast plate sitting over the top and under his arm he carries his helmet. He looks around happily at the small group, his eyes widening when he sees Mycroft.

"Mr Holmes, what a pleasure to see you outside of work." His smile is dazzling and directed solely at Mycroft, who seems momentarily startled by the attention. He recovers quickly, holding out his hand to Greg.

"Mycroft, please." He shakes Greg's hand, their grip lingering just momentarily longer than the accepted norm. "How nice to see you, Gregory." John is surprised to see a flush creep onto Greg's cheeks, but even more surprised by Mycroft's answering blush. A snort to his side draws his focus away from the two men who seem lost in each other and back to a pouting Sherlock.

"I think it's time for us to mingle John." Sherlock has a strange mix of bemusement and disgust dancing over his features as he walks away, ensuring that John is close by his side.

"What was that all about?" John queries, casting a glance back over his shoulder to where Mycroft and Lestrade are now deep in conversation.

"That," Sherlock huffs. "Was the start of something your blog fans would probably refer to as Mystrade."

"My..... what?" John is thoroughly confused now.

"It seems that Mycroft's costume has been quite fit for purpose."

"Fit for purpose? What purpose?" He pauses, quickly running over Sherlock's words again.

"It would seem, John, that my brother has won himself a goldfish." Sherlock once again speeds up to walk in front of John, tail nub and arse cheeks wiggling directly in John's line of vision.

"Goldfish? I swear Sherlock, there are times when I don't know what the bloody hell you're going on about."

 

The meal and auction are surprisingly enjoyable. They are sitting at a table with eight others, including Mycroft and Lestrade. Mycroft and Sherlock are both remarkably social. Greg obviously brings out the best in Mycroft and Sherlock fights off any boredom by deducing the patrons on other tables. Unusually, he does this quietly and directly into John's ear, his hot breath and the gentle brush of his lips causing John to tremble on more than one occasion. His notebook proves to be surprisingly popular during the auction, raising over £3000. He laughingly stands up to bow when the auctioneer calls on him and gives a short speech praising Sherlock, stating that his notes wouldn't exist without the work of the brilliant man beside him. He blames the alcohol both for his sentimental speech and the suggestion of tears in Sherlock's eyes. When he sits back down, Sherlock reaches across under the table and squeezes his thigh, before leaving his hand resting lightly on John's thin breeches. John is grateful that he took the bloodstained apron off at the start of the meal but wishes his jacket covered more of his groin area, suddenly extremely conscious of the close proximity of Sherlock's hand to said area. Sherlock's hated 'ear hat' raises a whopping £15,000 and he also takes a quick bow, leaving John in direct eye level with his backside. He gives a quick, but heartfelt speech to the assembled patrons, thanking them for supporting such a noble cause and giving so generously. When he sits back down he slides his hand once again onto John's thigh, where it remains for the rest of the auction.

The night wears on, with Sherlock people-watching and occasionally sharing his views with John. John watches with him but one lady, not much more than a girl really, keeps capturing his attention. He never sees her full on, just a quick glimpse of her back or her profile when there is a break in the crowd. Her blonde hair is styled to appear unkempt and dirty, straggling down over the tattered remains of what would have been an exquisite ball gown. At several points during the night he tries to point her out to Sherlock, but she's always gone before Sherlock can see her.

The dance floor slowly becomes less crowded and John catches sight of the girl again. He grabs at Sherlock's arm, his gaze never leaving the young woman.

"That's her, that's the woman I've been trying to point out to you all night." His voice is suddenly hoarse, and he clears his throat.

"Where, John? All I see are the same dull people I've watched all night." Sherlock leans in closer to John, following his line of sight, but seeing no-one.

"There, Sherlock. Straight in front of us, by the panelled door to the next room. Wearing the remains of a ball gown, blood stains all down the front from a cut throat, bedraggled mid length blonde hair. Extremely pale face. She's looking right bloody at us, Sherlock." His grip is now painfully tight on Sherlock's arm, but Sherlock doesn't try to free himself, instead moving so that his cheek now rests against John's, vainly trying to see the figure that has got John so distraught.

"John." Sherlock's voice is low, deliberately calm. "There's no-one fitting that description there."

"Don't tell me what I can and can't see, Sherlock!" John clamps his mouth shut, finally drawing his attention away from the girl to face Sherlock. Sherlock's face is shuttered of all emotion, a look John has rarely seen since his return to Baker Street. Shame floods through him. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped." He waits until Sherlock gives a short nod in acknowledgment. Loosening his hold on Sherlock's arm he looks again towards where the young lady is standing, her attention fixed upon John. "Look, I'm going over to talk to her. Something is not right there. Every time I've seen her she's been alone, I've not seen her speak to anyone. She barely looks sixteen, too young to be alone here. I'm going to see if she needs some help. She just looks ....... so lost, Sherlock."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Sherlock looks hopeful but resigned.

"No. I'm a big boy Sherlock, I can look after myself." John deliberately jokes in an effort to ease the uncomfortable air between them.

Sherlock leans in until his lips are touching John's ear, a trick he has employed a lot tonight, and waits until he feels the slight tremble go through John's body. "Those trousers leave very little doubt of the fact that you are, indeed, a big boy." John can feel hot crimson flushing his face and barely manages to squeak out a shocked 'Sherlock!' before Sherlock has moved away and turned his attention to Lestrade.

John takes a moment to gather his composure, fighting the hot flush on his cheeks back into submission before smoothing out his breeches and tugging at his jacket. He flashes Sherlock, Lestrade and Mycroft a brief grin before walking towards where the girl still waits. As he gets closer he can see her features more clearly and feels a tug of familiarity within him. Where has he seen her before? He steps in front of her, trying to stay out of her personal space and keep his body language non-threatening. He smiles, holding out a hand.

"Hi, I'm John. This is going to sound utterly ridiculous, but do I know you? You seem very familiar."

The girl looks briefly at his hand, as if confused by the gesture, before looking up to meet his eye. She nods vigorously, for a moment it's like someone has fiddled with the contrast button on the television and colour floods over her. Raggedy locks of hair morph into soft corn coloured curls, blank blue eyes spark with sudden intelligence and grey, pallid skin flushes a warm gold. John just has time to notice the gown shimmer a bright forget-me-not blue before the colours once again wash away. He takes an involuntary step back.

"How the hell......." He shakes his head, trying to reason it away as a trick of the light but knows that it wasn't. What was it Sherlock had said once? 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.' Time to eliminate the impossible. Breathing deeply he forces himself to study the figure before him, to identify what is so damn familiar about her. With a sudden start, the answer hits him. Hesitantly he leans forwards, his voice barely more than a soft whisper.

"Evangeline?" His eyes remain fixed on her face, very aware of the sadness he can now see there. "Are you Evangeline Watson?"

A small smile appears and she nods, gesturing for John to follow her. He casts a look over his shoulder in Sherlock's direction, relieved to see that Sherlock is already on his feet and moving towards them. Evangeline glances briefly in Sherlock's direction, the first time she has acknowledged anyone else's existence, before turning and walking towards the panelled doors. John's attention remains fixed on Sherlock's approach and he misses the moment she leaves the room. He sags a little at the touch of a firm hand to his shoulder and welcomes Sherlock's steadying presence.

"Don't try to explain, John. Just follow your instincts."

"You didn't see her, did you?" John knows the answer even before Sherlock shakes his head.

"No, but just because I didn't see her, doesn't mean _you_ didn't. I've never doubted you John, don't doubt yourself." Sherlock meets John's eye, never blinking, his hand once again at the small of John's back, easing him forward.

Together John and Sherlock push open the heavy panelled door, letting it swing shut behind them. For a moment John believes he has been transported back in time. The furniture is eighteenth century, elaborate but practical; it is only the sight of a modern telephone on the mahogany desk that convinces John they are still very much in the present. Evangeline is pacing in front of a magnificent fireplace, her dress making no sound as it whirls around her slim frame. Wringing her hands together, she looks from John to Sherlock and back again before finally gesturing for John to move closer to her. Without hesitation John joins her at the fireplace, secure in his knowledge that she means no harm and that Sherlock is only feet away. Evangeline's hand flutters over the scroll work of the mantelpiece pressing a seemingly random selection of carvings, before imploring John to do the same. He copies her movements, only hesitating over the last part before pressing it firmly. There is an audible click from deep within the wall and John hears Sherlock utter 'Oh' as he turns towards the sound. Evangeline has vanished again but Sherlock's focus is now fixed upon an opening in the wall.

"There's a secret alcove?" John knew he was stating the obvious, but he was starting to feel that if he said it aloud it would mean he wasn't imagining everything.

"Your mobile, John." Sherlock creeps towards the nook, breathing in the smell of dry earth, eyes narrowed and alert before flicking a concerned glance in John's direction. John is standing perfectly still, breath shallow and uneven, eyes flicking between Sherlock and the gap, dreading what will be revealed.

"Where's yours?" John's answer is automatic and he grimaces when Sherlock tilts his head and smirks, making a play of running his hands over his skin-tight costume.

"Oh! No pockets." John's giggle is high and light, the tension momentarily breaking, but he stops abruptly when he focuses again on the wall.

John shines the flashlight on his phone into the dark crevice, walking boldly forward when he sees the light play over pale material and bone. He sighs, the tension in his muscles flooding away, his eyes prickling with overwhelming sorrow, his heart heavy at their discovery; they have found the final resting place of Evangeline Watson.

John feels compelled to stay with the last of her mortal remains as Sherlock gathers Lestrade and Mycroft. Together they await the arrival of the local constabulary and CSI, watching when they reverently remove the skeleton from the wall. The dry air has partially mummified her; thin skin stretches over her skull, her hair still clinging to the scalp in tendrils. Her ribs are exposed and the front of her dress shows the unmistakable signs of massive blood loss. With no flesh about her neck to examine, it is hard to declare without further investigation precisely how she met her untimely end, but John is certain that she died from having her throat slit, the same as her devoted step-father.

"We'll never know what happened will we?" John asks Sherlock later, not really expecting an answer. He is therefore surprised when he sees sadness on Sherlock's face, now wiped clean of make-up.

"It would seem unlikely John. But at least now she can be properly laid to rest."

"Do you believe that I saw her Sherlock, that she somehow .... I don't know..... Guided me here?" John knows he sounds like he is pleading, and he almost is. Except for the evidence before them he can almost believe he dreamed the whole thing.

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Sherlock's warm voice fills the air, easing the ache in John's chest.

"Hamlet?" John asks, tilting his head to one side.

"Hamlet." Sherlock agrees, unfolding his long frame out of the desk chair he had been occupying during the removal of Evangeline from her tiny resting place. "Let's go home, John."

They walk back into the entrance hall to retrieve their coats, the Manor House now devoid of guests, only the police, Lestrade and Mycroft remain. John takes one final glance at his surroundings, stilling at the sight on the stairs.

"Sherlock." His voice barely a whisper.

"I see them, John. I see them too." Sherlock's voice is almost child-like in its wonder.

There before them stands Evangeline, her skin once again golden, her hair tumbling in carefree waves and her sweet mouth curled into a thankful smile. Behind her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder, stands a gentleman in the prime of life, his beard a luxurious chestnut brown on his handsome face. Step-daughter and father, reunited at last. Both men watch awe-struck as the familial couple slowly ascend the staircase, before fading out of sight.

Putting on their coats, John and Sherlock leave the house to wait for their car to arrive. The earlier mist has cleared and the stars shine brightly above them. John watches as his breath twirls and dances in small clouds from the cold night air, smiling when Sherlock's own twirls of breath join in the dance.

"John?" Sherlock sounds unusually hesitant, and when John looks over at him he is surprised to see a look of utter vulnerability on his friend's face. Sherlock removes his gloves, baring pale skin to the brisk air. Slowly, he moves them to John's face, palms curving lovingly over John's cheeks. John freezes, holding his breath, eyes fixed solely on Sherlock as his face edges ever closer to his own. When their faces are mere inches apart, Sherlock's eyes flutter closed and John melts at the beauty of the man before him. Pushing slowly up on his toes he meets Sherlock half way, their lips touching in the briefest of kisses. Their bodies meld against each other, their thin costumes and open coats doing nothing to blunt the sensations now coursing through them. Reluctantly John pulls away.

"Why now, Sherlock? Why finally now?" John rests his head against Sherlock's shoulder, his voice husky and his breath coming in small pants.

"Because.... It's time. It's finally time. I've wanted to do that for so very long, but it never seemed like the right time. Certain things happen at certain times. You, being here tonight, finding Evangeline. Us, being here together. It just felt ....right." Sherlock's voice is heavy with the import of the moment.

"Yes." John agrees. "It is time." Glancing up at Sherlock, he flashes a sudden bright grin. "Let's get back to Baker Street so I can get you out of that incredibly sexy, very distracting costume and see an incredibly sexy and very distracting naked you."

Sherlock gazes down at John, affection clear on his face, his broad smile matching John's. "That," says Sherlock, his voice pitched at precisely the right level to make John's heart race a little faster and his skin to heat, "Is the best idea I've heard all night!"

**Author's Note:**

> As you have probably noticed I did manage to sneak a reference in for Hamlet. I was lucky enough to see it both performed live at The Barbican and then to see the live stream at the cinema. The show is just amazing, a real thrill to the senses, but it was Benedict's heartfelt plea at the end that reduced me to tears. I was in the audience on the first night he ever requested our support for Save The Children, a crumpled poem between his fingers and a quaver in his voice. I don't doubt that the man is genuinely dedicated to the cause. If, like myself and Benedict, you'd like to show your support, please go to SaveTheChildren.org and do what you can.
> 
> Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> Dee  
> Xxx


End file.
